The Other Skywalker
by DanielJ
Summary: The coming of age story of Mannuk Jarrad, the illegitimate son of Annikin Skywalker and a successful Tatooine time-share salesman.


**The Other Skywalker**

I've got the pitch down so cold you'd think I've been frozen in carbonite. And the old lady from Endor is eating out of my hand. God, I wish they were all this easy.

"That's right, sweetheart," I say into the vidphone. "Two suns. You don't even have to move to get an even tan."

We laugh. Candy from a baby. Once I get twenty more weeks sold I'm heading out to Coruscant to start a business with a buddy of mine—selling time shares to real resorts. I can't wait to see this planet in my rear view mirror. I've already spent the worst twenty-one years of my life here—although I am a little hazy on the first couple years. I'm pretty sure they were unpleasant, but just being born and all I don't remember them so well. Given the following nineteen, I think I can go out on a limb and say they also totally sucked. I want out. But that's just between us. Meantime I'm a selling machine.

I mean, how good does this sound? "_We invite you to savor the __Suns-Shine Luxury Resort__, a distinguished member of the __Hutt Resort__ family. Delight in the Suns-drenched beaches and the spectacular Suns-sets in your own personal Utopia. Imagine the gentle breeze caressing you as it wafts off the Dune Sea while you relax on your private lanai with a cool drink. The tranquil setting will melt away the complications of the modern world in Tatooine's most dazzling and elegant hot spot, the __Suns-Shine Luxury Resort__._

_Enjoy your own palatial condominium with a full view of the Dune Sea. It's paradise and it's right here on beautiful Tatooine, "the unexplored jewel at the edge of the Galactic Empire". __Suns-Shine__ has it all: Opulent furnishings, gorgeous beaches, and suns-shine year round. And if you're adventurous, remember—"What happens on Tatooine, stays on Tatooine."_

If you can't sell that, you probably ought to be working retail. Of course, nobody on this planet would be stupid enough to buy so we sell strictly to off-worlders. There's a lot of yokels out here on the Outer Rim with cash burning a hole in their pockets. And fortunately, most of them aren't too familiar with our lovely planet.

"Yes, darling, those weeks are available now, but I've got a couple from Bespin who are calling me back any minute with their decision. Like I said, those were the weeks they wanted too. We're out of almost everything in the summer months already."

Our receptionist, Goytta, is back here in the sales office for a smoke and can't hold back her laughter on that one. "Oh Ho Ho!" she goes, sounding just like her Uncle Jabba. She has the total package, other than not weighing about eight thousand pounds. And that's not to say she's slim. I'd put her at a good ton or so, with at least four chins and these weird bruise-colored growths all over her. At least all over her face. I try not to speculate on what's under her robe. Ooh, I just gave myself a full body shudder. She squeezes her bulk through the door and heads up front.

I go in for the kill. "There's my phone now. Let me see …Yes, it's that couple from Bespin. I'd better take this because I'd hate to lose the sale. Okay, no, no, don't panic. I just need a little information and you'll be all set up. No, I'll let it go to vidmail." Cha-ching! Two more weeks toward getting the hell out of here.

Who said selling time shares is a tough way to make a living? It's just a numbers game. Talk to enough people, the sales take care of themselves. The only requirement is the ability to hear "no" all day. Me, that's all I've heard my whole frigging life. What could another hundred thousand "no's" do that the first hundred thou' hasn't?

I guess I owe you an introduction. My name's Mannuk Jarrad but, because my mom claims the supposedly wonderful Anakin Skywalker was my biological father, most of the A-holes around here call me Manakin Skywalker. Yuck yuck. This passes for sophisticated humor on our burgh of a planet. Everybody says Skywalker must have been wasted to bang my mom, and assuming he really did her, I'd say it's likely. She used to work as a "hostess" (her words) on Coruscant, and being the Capital planet, there was no lack of customers; even the Jedi knights would occasionally sneak down to the lower levels to relieve a little tension. Mom and Dad's "relationship" probably lasted fifteen minutes—which in my experience was about her average.

After getting knocked up, she ran into some legal trouble when some mucky-muck caught a particularly nasty case of droid crabs. She claimed it wasn't from her ("I always warshed out me plummin'," Mom would say proudly) but apparently she wasn't

confident she could convince a court, so she stowed away on the first starfreighter heading off planet. She had just arrived here when she pooped me out, making me a citizen of scenic Tatooine.

Through the door, I'm hearing raised voices. It's Goytta with what most likely are unhappy customers. See, we're starting to have a few issues with our advertising. The brochure kind of exaggerates the quality of the resort, the weather, that kind of stuff, so on Tatooine we're strictly low profile. Ideally, this office would be off-world to keep the unhappy clients away, but the boss lives here and doesn't like to be too far from his money. Occasionally one of the clients figures out where the office is and we get to calm them down. Believe me, it's a challenge once they've experienced the splendors of Tatooine and the Suns-shine Resort. Public housing on a planet where the principal occupation is moisture farming is not what most of these rubes were expecting.

But everything in the brochure is real. There's a lovely picture of the "Suns-drenched beaches"—otherwise known as the desert that covers pretty much every square inch of this planet. I guess they forgot to include a picture of the Dune Sea, but nowhere does it specifically say there's any water in it. I don't know what the big deal is. It's called the Dune Sea. There's no false advertising there.

And it _is_ sunny all the time. So it gets up to 149 degrees. The brochure doesn't say it's comfortable; it says it's sunny. And it's true that the tranquil setting melts away the complications of the modern world. Among the modern complications that tend to

melt are personal communicators and some types of clothing. The brochure even says that _Suns-Shine_ is a "hot spot". How much more graphic does it need to be, for crying out loud. Spin is what advertising is all about. Take your deficiencies and make them assets. Although I suppose saying "Imagine the gentle breeze caressing you as it wafts off the Dune Sea" to describe a hundred-and-seventy mile an hour sandstorm might be stretching it a little. But you'd definitely feel it caress you.

Besides, you can't blame us that "What happens on Tatooine, stays on Tatooine" because most people get killed one way or another before they can get off the planet.

Anyway, Goytta's really more of a bodyguard than a receptionist. The blaster taped under her desk is usually enough to convince unruly clients that their condos are pretty nice after all. Most of the time though, she just does her nails and spies on the salespeople. We try to keep her happy because her uncle is one mean bastard. Like the last sales contest we had. First prize was a brand new Skyhopper landspeeder, second prize was a set of steak knives, and third prize was getting fed to Jabba's Rancor. There were three third prizes. Me, I got the speeder, thank you very much. The guy knows how to motivate, I'll give him that.

The door opens. "Manakin, these guys want to talk to you."

I motion for her to come in the office and shut the door. "What's up? Didn't sound so hot out there."

Goytta shuffles into the office, crosses her arms and stares down at me with those monster eyeballs, and then lets loose with that phlegmy voice. "Like it's my job to cross examine the witness?"

Must have been something she heard on HV last night. The holovision is her entire social life, which I guess is not surprising given the family resemblance between her and Uncle Jabba.

She pouts. "Are you going to talk to them or not?"

"Why? Who are they?"

The door opens again and a pair of Imperial frigging Stormtroopers, blasters at the ready, walk into the office. There aren't a lot of these guys around, and they mostly hang around Mos Eisley near the spaceport, but there's more of them every day. The rumor is that the Empire is looking to get better control of the Outer Rim, but so far they haven't really screwed with anybody here that I know of. Most importantly, I've managed to stay clear of these buttwipes until now.

One thing I'll tell you though, I really don't get their uniforms. They're supposed to be scary but when I look at them all I can think of is grasshoppers. Big white grasshoppers with—size small—athletic supporters. They should at least pad the crotch with some socks or something to make them a little more intimidating.

The first one points his blaster at me. "Mannuk Jarrad?" he says.

"Yes, sir," I say, swiveling my chair until I'm facing him. I'm figuring that being friendly would be a good strategy right about now. "What can I do you for?"

Next thing I know, I'm handcuffed and shoved into a transport. They leave me cooling my heels in a jail cell in Mos Eisley (if it's possible to "cool" my heels when it's about a thousand degrees in here). The cell is eight feet long by six feet wide, with no bed and a frigging hole in the floor for excretions. Totally disgusting. Hotter than hell and the fragrant aroma of raw sewage wafting through the air.

Finally, a couple guards drag me to another part of the jail. They shove me in a room where this big bastard all dressed in black is standing behind a table. Of course, I know it's Darth F'ing Vader. There he stands in his superhero costume, with a curtain thrown over his shoulders and a helmet that looks like a gigantic dickhead. I assume he's supposed to be scary looking but to me he looks like some elementary school dork whose mom made him a costume for the Halloween Parade. Still, they say on HV that he's got lots of scary Jedi powers so I decide I better be careful. We stand there, staring at each other, him making so much noise breathing I almost start to feel sorry for him. That's one bad case of asthma. He must have a hell of a time trying to sneak up on anybody.

He nods his head slightly. "I was told the son of Anakin Skywalker may be on Tatooine. There can be no mistake. I sense the Force is strong with you."

Wow, what a voice. I mean, he sounds so good he could do commercials. Maybe if he could get his breathing problems under control he could try some community theater, assuming they have a role for a giant penis. "Uh, yeah, listen, I've already missed my lunch hour and should probably be getting back—"

"Silence!" he commands. Then he drops this bombshell.

"Mannuk, I am your father."

"No, Anakin Skywalker was my dad, or so I hear."

"Years ago I was Anakin Skywalker. I am your father."

I consider him from across the table. Great. I grow up in the shadow of 'The Chosen One' and now it turns out my dad is the biggest butthole in the galaxy. Could this day get any better? "Okay. So, did you come here to give me all the birthday presents you forgot to send?"

"Birthday presents? I have no birthday presents."

"Okay," I say, "how about the child support? I figure you must owe me about a million peggats by now."

He seems confused. "Child support?"

What a dick. "You know, your responsibility for your children doesn't end when you pull it out. What do you think this is, Eos? You have to support your children until they're eighteen. So you owe me for eighteen years."

"Lord Vader does not pay child support."

"'_Lord_' Vader, is it? Well, la de da, aren't we fancy?"

Again, the majestic voice. "Listen to me. The Rebel Alliance has dared to challenge the Emperor and are causing some …difficulties. You will join me in destroying the Rebels."

My jaw hits the floor. "Join you? You've got to be kidding me. Why in hell would I join you? All you've done is ignore me my whole frigging life, and now you waltz in here and expect me to go off and kill people with you? Forget it." I cross my arms and show him my back.

He says, "I find your lack of faith annoying."

I feel a tightening sensation around my neck like someone's starting to strangle me. Getting hard to breathe. I lift off the floor and rotate toward him. I grab my throat. "Can't … breathe … stop …"

He's standing there with his hand reaching out toward me, then makes a fist and turns away. I hit the floor.

I'm not proud of this, but I lose it. Maybe it's the pain, maybe it's the shock of seeing this bastard for the first time, but I start blubbering. "You son of a bitch, what was so wrong with me? I go my whole life with no father, putting up with all kinds of crap because you're my dad, and you can't even show up one frigging time?" I'm really crying now. "I'll never help you. Never."

He's silent. I look up at him and he's staring back.

"You will join us or be terminated. Your training begins tomorrow." He sweeps his cape behind him and strides to the door.

Once he's gone a couple stormtroopers march into the room and start dragging me back to my cell. I'm not about to show these bastards he got to me, so I give them a little grief. They don't seem pleased when I point out that those big guns are obviously compensation for their tiny packages. They knock me around a little but no worse than my mom ever did. Pussies.

So I'm laying on the floor of this stinking cell in the middle of the night, freezing my ass off and totally unable to sleep. Nice choice, huh? Join him or get bumped off. Just because I inherited my Dad's DNA means I have to follow in his footsteps? What does he think this is, the Middle Ages? Like Anakin was a blacksmith so I have to be one too? More like he's a deathsmith. And I doubt the Rebels are that much better anyway. They're out there smiting people just as fast as Vader ever did. Oh, right, they're trying to overthrow the evil Galactic Empire, so it's okay if they waste thousands of people. Let me tell you, it all depends on who's writing the history book.

I hear a soft voice at the end of the corridor. "He's transporting the prisoner. I'll unlock the cell," and then I hear one of the guards repeat it. The next thing I know the guard walks over and unlocks my door, followed by this old dude with gray hair and a beard who gestures for me to come out. "We have no time to lose. Come with me."

"Hold up, gramps," I say. "Just exactly who are you?"

"My name is Ben Kenobi and I'm here to help you. We must leave now."

"All right," I say. "I'm all for getting out of here." We hurry through the darkened corridor and burst out into the early desert morning.

I'm all set to thank him and be on my way when I find myself face to face with a light saber. "Whoa, big fella," I say, putting my hands up in surrender. "Is this about a time share? I know it says no refunds but I'm sure we can make a special exception for you."

"I'm not looking for a refund," Kenobi says in this mellow voice. "I need you to come to my ship for a very special opportunity."

Uh oh. I back away. "Hey man, I'm not into that kind of stuff. Why don't you stop by the office tomorrow—"

"No, I'm afraid that I must insist," he says, waving the glowing blade of the laser sword under my chin. I'm sure those things hurt like a bitch, but to tell you the truth, just the hum it made almost had me dropping a load in my pants.

"Sure, sure, whatever you want."

So now I'm in the back seat of a modified X-Wing Fighter, which has got to be the least comfortable way to travel since the Bantha. All they did was take a one-seater and give both people half as much room. There's no padding in this seat and my ass has fallen asleep.

And get this: Kenobi claims to be a Jedi and says he's flying me to Dagobah, the A-hole of the universe, to have that dwarf midget Yoda train _me_ to be a Jedi. Once again, DNA screwing up my life. Thanks a lot Anal-kin; you've been a ton of help.

Here I've finally got almost enough dough to say goodbye to my past forever and, Wham! I get bitch-slapped right in the kisser.

Kenobi says this training is going to take like five years. Five years of my life in a swamp with a runty shrimp bastard. I can't believe this. My buddies and I collected Jedi action figures when we were kids and everybody always tried to trade off their Yodas, since he sucked the big one. His frigging cartoon couldn't even make it when the Jedi craze was at its max. Maybe it's the way he talks. I don't know if you've ever heard the pocket Jedi speak, but it's about the funniest thing in the galaxy. It's all this, "Impatient you are, powerful you have become." I mean come on. You'd think with eight-hundred years under his belt, he could have at least learned basic grammar. Or maybe I can pick up his language. "Bored I am. A lamebrain you are." Yeah, I think I'm getting the hang of it.

But back to reality. We've made the jump to hyperspace and I keep giving Kenobi the needle. I think I've already asked Jedi-boy fifty times, 'Are we there yet?' just trying to get a rise out of him.

"Hello? Kenobi? I gotta pee. Can't we stop somewhere?" I whine into my communicator.

"All in good time, young Skywalker," he says.

"Yeah, all in good time for you since I suppose you're used to having a tube jammed up your peehole," I shoot back. "I have to go and if you don't stop I'm gonna whip it out right here. There's only one atmosphere on this ship," I warn him.

I can hear the smile in his voice. "I have experienced much worse, my boy. Urinate at will."

Bluff called. I wasn't going to do it anyway. I just wanted to stretch my legs a little and see if I could get some feeling back in my butt cheeks.

I don't suppose you've ever been to Dagobah? Well, neither have I but when I was a kid I saw the "Wild Galaxy" show on that putrid ball of ooze. Do you remember that one? The young guy got sucked into the swamp by some slimy carnivore three minutes into the show while the host, that old fossil Rink Plasminer, sat up in orbit sucking down Cometdusters. And you may have noticed that even at 110 miles above the surface and hammered on Cometdusters he still had nose plugs in. Nice place. I believe this was the show that single-handedly killed Smellivision. It was big, right? Then, all of a sudden it was gone. And that was right after the show on the stinkiest planet in creation. Coincidence? For at least a week our living room smelled like someone had just slaughtered a dewback. I doubt it was any more appealing in anyone else's house.

How sweet. I get to live in a nauseating quagmire with a miniature missing-link for the next half-decade.

"Prepare for landing, my young friend," Kenobi calls from the front seat.

"I've been prepared since you sat me in this frigging phone booth, oh great Jedi Master." (Said sarcastically if you didn't pick it up.)

So he lands in a swamp, big surprise, since there's nothing else on the planet, and we get out to schlep over to Yoda's place. Nothing but slime as far as the eye can see. And the smell! How could I possibly describe this odor to you, since you're likely someone who thinks the bathroom is uninhabitable for 24 hours after your dad uses it.

It's like this: Let's say you have a stomach virus and you've got stuff coming out both ends while you boil cabbage in an outhouse full of rotten eggs. And a wet dog rubs himself all over your face while the smell of burning hair drifts through the privy. And then a seven hundred pound wookie who has spent the last three decades not bathing forces your nose into his armpit that sports an infected cyst the size of your eyeball, just as it explodes, shooting pus and blood and sweat into every nook and cranny on your face. Can you smell it? Yeah, that's it. I'm talking stink.

So anyway, we slog our way through the muck, me clamping my nose shut and still almost passing out from the smell, and finally get to Yoda's house. House? What am I saying? Hovel, hut, shack, slum…rathole. Yeah, that's the word I'm looking for. Rathole. Except I assume rats are generally cleaner than Yodas. (Is that what he is, I mean, is there a race of Yodas or is he some kind of mutant? Hold it. I think I know the answer.)

From behind me, Kenobi says, "Master Skywalker, you must do this alone."

"Alone?" I say. "You ain't leaving me in this slime pit by myself." But when I turn around he's gone. Just up and disappeared, leaving me and my sinuses unprotected.

I seem to have no choice so I knock on the door. It swings open and a goofy voice says, "Come in you must."

I peer into the rathole. "Hello, anybody there? I thought I heard something but I don't see anyone."

"Down here I am," the shrimp says from just above ground level.

God, he's not even smart enough to insult. I look down. There he is, the hope of the Republic, all two feet two inches of him. If he's the secret weapon, I better put all my money into Galactic Empire Treasury Bills. The wee warrior is a sickly greenish color and looks very much like he's had the flu for the last couple centuries. His ears are just about as big as your grandpa's would be on his eight hundredth birthday, and he's got wrinkles in places where most people don't even have places. Even by Sand People standards he's an ugly bastard. To sum up: "Yoda" is to "Impressive" as "Darth Vader" is to "Father of the Year".

"Oh, gosh, sorry," I say. "Why don't you stand up and get out of the way so I can come in?"

"Standing I am," the numbskull replies and moves aside.

"Oh, thank you. Or is it 'you thank?'" I ask.

"Naturally you should say it," responds the dimwit.

"Hmm," I say, thinking of the next five years listening to this complete ignoramus. "Makes sense that does."

Oh, for a light saber. I think I could catch him napping.


End file.
